559. Hot and Cold

Contradiction. To hold a thought and not hold it at the same time. Is time a function of change? Is there a smallest unit of existence that makes simultaneousness a figment? When I take a pint glass of hot tea and I place ice in the glass and then immediately take a sip, I sometimes feel the flow of both hot and cold tea, simultaneously, over my tongue. No matter how many times I do this, I am child-like delighted each and every time. Giddy, one could say. Rog would like that. I can see him laughing, the kind of laugh that truth elicits, an insight as to why I am not him and he is not me for I could be giddy and he could not ever be such.

Trev put his pen down, drew the sea into his lungs and adjusted his sunglasses in the cloudless sky to avoid the myriad reflections of his comm, which, now, lay shattered into an army of glittering winks across the sea-facing deck.

I am saved and I am ruined and all within the hour, if not the minute. Where is that point where day becomes night or night becomes day? When is one sane and when is one crazy and how can one tell which is which, when, like the tea, it flows, simultaneously, hot and cold? I'm not writing this note to be read, as a leave behind piece, which might inflict guilt or offered inexcusable excuses otherwise known as rational lies. I'm going to be honest, which is my way of saying I have not always been honest, not by my design, but by some other wicked hand, but this time, I am my own hynerian. I write this note, I say what I am saying, because it brings me pleasure.

Trev paused to wipe away a trickle of sweat from his eye, the act, which required taking off his sunglasses, by necessity, required putting down his pen. Eye wiped, sunglasses back in place, pen was held again in hand, a lance ready to battle vellum, the neighing of nib upon what once was living, seeking sun, spreading branch and leaf, bothering no one.

Today, in this hour, within the same breath, not two breaths, but within a singular breath, I thought of suicide and, I shiott you not, in the same exact moment, I thought of running the beach, not to run away, not to run to exhaustion, but to exercise, to keep my stomach flat, to remain fit. Hot and cold. How does a sane person hold these two thoughts, death and life, hold them simultaneously, in all unconscious seriousness, as if to do so was as logical as a sandwich? This thought occurred, for the record, before I smashed the comm into tiny bits. And for the record, there were no messages, no blinking light, no nothing.